


your lucky number is none

by xylodemon



Category: American Gods (TV), American Gods - Neil Gaiman
Genre: Ficlet, Fight Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2017-10-29 13:47:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sweeney kisses the same way he fights ─ hot and fast and sloppy, all enthusiasm and no technique.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your lucky number is none

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katertotter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katertotter/gifts).



> A porn snippet that takes place in the bathroom of Jack's Crocodile Bar. They've both been drinking, so consent issues, etc.
> 
> This was book-inspired, but it fits in with tonight's episode well enough. No spoilers.

Shadow stumbles back with a soft grunt, wincing as the sink digs sharply into his hip. His shoes shriek over the wet tiles and his hand catches in Sweeney's dirty shirt. The restroom is strangely quiet; Shadow hears the whispering hum of a running toilet, the dull drip of the leaky faucet at his back, and Sweeney's breathing seems overly loud, sudden and ragged and too close to Shadow's ear. He smells like sweat and Southern Comfort and cheap cigarettes, and Shadow's stomach is tense and roiling, queasy from adrenaline and the sour bite of the mead Wednesday made him drink.

Sweeney's mouth moves up Shadow's jaw, lewd and wet, and Shadow chokes down a noise as he slams his elbow into Sweeney's side. His head is swimming, feels punch-drunk and beer-stupid. Sweeney just laughs at him, low and throaty, his voice tobacco-rough under the naked, flickering lightbulb, harsh as it slides off the dim, piss-stale walls. Sweeney palms the back of Shadow's head, digging his nails in a little, and Shadow feels teeth at the thin skin behind his ear.

The door creaks open, closes with a sigh.

Shadow arches away from Sweeney's body and hedges to the side, tries to find enough space and leverage to knee Sweeney in the balls, but Sweeney is quicker, works his own knee up and in until Shadow is kind of straddling his thigh, and he pins Shadow to the sink with a hard hand at Shadow's hip. Shadow sighs around another dangerous noise, lets his head fall back against the wall. His hands are shaking, and Sweeney's fingers are twisted in his collar, and Sweeney's tongue is slick and sudden against Shadow's broken lip.

Sweeney kisses the same way he fights -- hot and fast and sloppy, all enthusiasm and no technique -- and it reminds Shadow of Low-Key a little, of the thirty minutes of free time they'd got before lights out and the bottom bunk in the tiny prison cell they'd shared. Shadow isn't sure he wants this, but he's hard, has been since Sweeney shoved him through the restroom door, maybe even before that, building slow and tight in his gut with his first punch, and Sweeney laughs again, his fingers tripping over Shadow's zipper, and he tells Shadow he's easy in a soft huff against Shadow's mouth, with a coughed whisper against Shadow's throat.

Shadow's eye has finally swollen shut; he can only see half of Sweeney's face, and it smudges and blurs as Sweeney presses in for another kiss. Shadow's lips push over Sweeney's jaw, all stubble and sweaty skin, and Sweeney grabs at the back of Shadow's neck, pulling sharply, wrenching Shadow's head to where he wants it, and then it's just spit and tongues and teeth, heated and slick and too much pressure on Shadow's bruised mouth.

The door groans open again. Sweeney barks out something around Shadow's tongue, quick and harsh, garbled but obvious in its meaning, and then he drags his mouth down to Shadow's neck, and Shadow's good eye slides closed as Sweeney bites and sucks at the skin just above his collar. Sweeney's hand is in Shadow's pants, not quite touching, but close, so close, and Sweeney's dick is hard and waiting against Shadow's thigh.

Shadow tries to get his own hand between them, but there isn't enough room, not the way they're shoved and twisted together, but Sweeney doesn't seem to mind, just presses his wet, open mouth against Shadow's throat, panting warm and ragged as he rocks into Shadow and rides his dick against Shadow's hip. When his fingers finally curl around Shadow's dick, twitching into motion, Shadow rumbles out a low moan and fists his hand in Sweeney's shirt.

Shadow's head is swimming again; his legs are shaking and his stomach feels sharp and tight. Sweeney's hand stutters over his dick, his strokes pulling clumsy and erratic, and Shadow moves to meet him as best he can, chasing after the rough friction and pressure. Sweeney's holding him by the hip now, his fingers gripping hard enough to bruise, and Shadow moans as Sweeney's palm drags up the underside of his dick, as his thumb flicks over the head.

Sweeney stills suddenly and shudders against him, choking out a low moan, his hot breath fanning over Shadow's neck. His hair is nearly auburn in the poor light and a bruise is blooming on his cheek; he twists his hand in just the right way, his teeth nipping just below Shadow's ear, and Shadow comes over his fist, thick and white as he smells sweat and Southern Comfort and cigarettes.

There's a knock at the door, then Wednesday's bright, jovial voice. Sweeney tells him to fuck off, they're busy, and Shadow laughs as his knees give out and he slumps to the floor.


End file.
